A Bad Idea
by vargrimar
Summary: While it isn't a bad idea by inheritance, it is the chosen subject matter that makes it particularly bad. There are countless things he could think of to help himself along, and yet his mind is firmly focused on the one person who would never want him in a sexual sense. [A Your Body Is a Weapon short - Junkrat going solo post chapter 40.]


_So in YBIAW, Satya has a moment alone in the shower thinking of Jamie... I'm curious, has Jamison done the same thing thinking about Satya? I'm very curious to know and if so could we get a little short written scene of that?_

* * *

Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one of them.

Not that jacking off in the shower is a bad idea, because it isn't. It is discreet, private (relatively speaking), a form of stress relief, and requires far less cleanup than he presently has the energy for—which, by all accounts, should categorize it as a good idea. And it is, really, when he considers the pros and cons, because he would much rather spend a few extra minutes rubbing one out than suffer a stubborn stiffie for hours on fucking end, and he already has trouble getting to sleep as it is without being distracted by that telltale tightness in his trousers; he doesn't _need_ any of this.

But while it isn't a bad idea by inheritance, it is the chosen subject matter that makes it particularly bad. There are countless things he could think of to help himself along, and yet his mind is firmly focused on the one person who would never want him in a sexual sense.

Maybe it would have been better if he hadn't discovered her real name. 'Symmetra' is a lovely moniker and as impersonal as one can get with corporate uniforms and prim makeup and polished nails, but Satya—oh, fuck him, just the _sound_ of it is beautiful—Satya is personable and dresses in little blouses and bikinis and lathers herself in sunscreen and laughs at his jokes and pokes him playfully on the nose and mimics his accent and gives him the rest of her drink ( _"It's clearly your favorite"_ ) and keeps his painted grenade shells and—

Jamison bites his lip to suppress a groan, his back pressed flush against the cool tile of the shower wall. He sits upon the stall's bench, prosthetics removed, doused with drumming water, and he palms his cock with a degree of hesitance, still not entirely sure of his decision. He knows he should because this damn erection has been around since seeing her in practically nothing (wet, _soaked_ , strips of sapphire clinging to every delicate curve) and if it hasn't buggered off by now he's certain it isn't likely to go away on its own, but that doesn't stop him from second guessing himself because if she knew about this at all, if she somehow found out, it would be—

Fucking terrible, actually, because his stupid fantasies always involve more than just her sitting there with her clothes off, and, well, maybe that's just not how she is? Maybe he's got her all wrong in his head, that the intimate personality he's dreamed up is something too different than how she'd be in reality, but—

God, she's hot in his lap and grinding against him, kissing his chin, his cheek, his brow; she's running her hands through his hair and murmuring soft little praises when he glides his tongue over her clit, deliciously thick thighs squeezing him close; she's whispering his name ( _"Oh, Jamison, please"_ ) as he slicks two fingers in and then the length of his cock; and she's always enjoying herself, always, and she tells him as much because hearing her is a turn on all in itself, but sometimes she tells him what to do, how to do it, what things she likes, how she'd love to feel him lose himself and come (and it wouldn't matter where because he likes making a mess and she doesn't mind; on her back, on her breasts, in her mouth, or—oh, if she'd let him—god, _please_ —he'd come deep inside so he could feel her squeeze and clench through every god damn earth-shattering second of his orgasm) and just the idea, the concept, the very fucking _notion_ of her getting off with him (because god if he doesn't imagine it) is almost too much to bear and it makes his blood sing with unfettered want and he doesn't bloody care if poetics are stupid or cheesy—he absolutely _aches_ for her.

Jamison starts to stroke himself under the running water, unable to resist a second longer. It doesn't matter if his fantasies are wrong or ridiculous, it doesn't matter, it doesn't; they're just fantasies and it's not like Satya would want to fuck him anyway, so why not indulge? His mind is already astir with how she'd looked on the beach today in that tiny set of togs (and it's torturous; he runs that image of her over and over and over again in his thoughts, drenched and dripping out of the ocean, a siren straight from seafoam; if she were a record, he would be wearing grooves into her with the sheer frequency and he cannot seem to make himself stop) and it's clear he needs to hurry and finish up already so he can _finally_ focus on other things, so—why not, right? What's the harm in another bad idea?

He releases a breathy sigh as he works his cock in a tight upstroke. His hips rise just slightly from the bench, a desperate little movement, and he tries to find the right rhythm. Pleasure knits through him and he grits his teeth, eager for more.

She would be—yes, in his lap, legs spread around his hips, and that sleek little sapphire piece would be nudged just to the side so he could feel how wet she'd be (and because of him; she'd make sure to tell him that: _I'm like this because of you_ ) and maybe she would tease him a while, rubbing herself against the bare underside of his cock, kissing him senseless and nipping at his jaw. Her kisses would be addicting and he'd never get enough; he would kiss her mouth, her throat, her collarbone, and she'd pepper his shoulders with gentle pecks and soft bites to match all his birthmarks and freckles.

Eventually, she'd look him in the eye and grab hold of him, angling the tip of his cock against the slick wetness soaking between her legs, and then she'd let him in—oh, god, yes—just a bit at a time because it's been a while, she needs to adjust, it's all right, and she'd slowly take him in, the wet heat of her clenching around him in such a dizzying way until she'd sit fully on top of him with him buried to the hilt and her hands gripping at his shoulders, her countenance laced with lust.

He'd ask her if she's okay—because you've always got to ask, common courtesy, he's got manners—and she'd nod and give her hips a delightful little roll, and then he'd clasp his hands on her and help her ride. It would be slow at first, sweet and gradual, all in her control, and she would be marvelous with her long jet hair tangled down her shoulders and the sleek sheen of perspiration on her beautifully dark skin. Maybe she would talk to him in the middle of it, maybe she'd tell him how good it feels, how much she's wanted this, how she's touched herself while thinking of this very moment, all while shifting forward and back or up and down to give him a fleeting taste of what it would be like to have her down beneath him where he could just let loose and drive in—

Jamison leans his head back against the damp tile, eyes squeezed shut. He pumps his cock with a hastened pace and tries to focus on each shivering skip of pleasure braiding down his backbone, on that wonderfully tightening coil. Toes curled, he straightens himself and presses his shoulders against the wall, a gravelly noise latched at the knot of his adam's apple. He thinks of her kissing him, of her rocking over top of him, of her so hot and tight and perfect, and he is so close, so _close_ , but not quite close enough—

Satya would moan his name, shaky and breathless in his ear. She would have one hand down between her legs so she could circle her clit and he'd thrust up into her, teeth on her shoulder (something to remember him by), trying his best to last because he wants to savor every second of this, but there is no way he could hope to keep up such a punishing pace without hitting his breaking point.

 _How close?_ he'd breathe, because he is just at the precipice; the slightest push and he would surely drop—

 _Close_ , she'd reply, and she would kiss him with such a fierce hunger that it's as if she's devouring the oxygen straight from his lungs.

Another few moments, and then something would trip. Oh, her voice; she would make a sound so sublime as she brings her forehead against his— _Jamison, Jamison, oh, Jamie, please_ —and the tight heat around him would squeeze and contract and _push_ in hot waves and he'd thrust upward to meet her because god she feels so fucking fantastic he can't control himself, he can't, he can do nothing but move, and—

Everything seizes up. Pleasure pulses through him in wracking spikes as he works his cock in his left hand, unbearable and wonderful and complete. Each stroke forces another tremulous shock up his spine, and he shivers as warm, thick jets of white slick his hand and stomach under the pouring water. He continues for as long as he's able, reveling in the sweet sensation of total release, a moan pinned tight behind his teeth—he can't let her name escape aloud.

When oversensitivity sets in, Jamison slumps back against the tile wall. He breathes in short gasps of steam and lets the water rain over him. Rivulets carve down his back and belly, soaking his hair into watery blond stalactites over his eyes. Exhaustion starts to seep in; it inundates just behind his temples before splaying out to encompass his shoulders, his arms, his hips, his leg (and what's left of the other).

He blinks away drops of water, spent.

Fuck.

With a tremble in his arm, he lifts his hand toward the shower handle, gives it a curt strike to cold, and then lets his fingers hang beneath the showerhead so that the evidence can be ushered down the drain. The sudden temperature contrast jolts ripples of gooseflesh up his arms, but he ignores it. Suffering a little discomfort in the aftermath probably serves him right.

Once his belly has been given a quick scrub, he wipes the water from his face with the stump of his forearm before shutting off the shower. The hollow sound of rushing runnels trickling through the grout and down the grate seems to echo in the empty space of the washroom—all of the others have long since retired to their beds, Satya included.

Jamison forces down a swallow, willing himself not to think about the painted grenade shell he'd seen drop from her hand or the wry little smirks she employs at his jokes or the fit of unabashed laughter she'd succumbed to not six hours ago. It is more difficult than he would care to admit; his mind is a mess, tearing toward her and his work and whatever mission's next on the docket and the notes he'd scribbled in her blueprints (he tells himself it's not a mistake) and it feels like all of him wants to split away in every direction so he can be everywhere at once—which is very much not here and very much not alone.

He presses his palm into the space just over his heart. A twinge settles somewhere under his jagged heartlines.

It aches, yeah, but…

God, surely a bad idea's not supposed to make it ache like this?


End file.
